


sunlit jade

by antagonists



Category: Fire Emblem: If | Fire Emblem: Fates, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-28
Updated: 2017-05-28
Packaged: 2018-11-05 19:01:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11019600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antagonists/pseuds/antagonists
Summary: Warmer than the sunlight on Morgan’s face is the burn of Ryouma’s lips, whispering prayers, swearing promises and an oath into his mouth.





	sunlit jade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kurisawa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kurisawa/gifts).



> this is for gaige, thank u!! <3

* * *

 

 

 

Traveling through time is one thing, traversing worlds is another matter entirely.

 

In hindsight, Morgan thinks, following others into a world he knows nothing about had not been one of his most brilliant ideas, but he has never been great at staying in one place; always moving, always _yearning_ for adventure and new sights. He’s become somewhat used to being unfamiliar with his surroundings, what with reawakening into another Ylisse and its fascinating tale of writing over a darker fate, yet he still is rather—awestruck at the shadows of shrines beneath a gentle sunrise. The red paint looks rather dark and grim in shade, but brightens as the morning progresses. The sunlight is warm on his skin.

 

He seems to have manifested in a different place than his comrades. In his dreams, he has seen the dark, barren lands that they walk, and has some doubts that they could be in the same realm. They’ve all grown older and have lived through two kinds of wars, even if he doesn’t have the horrid memories that many of his companions do, and he worries about what reminders such a desolate environment could bring.

 

 _Have faith in them_ , he admonishes himself, when the skies have brightened to the point that they nearly bring tears to his eyes. _We’ve overcome; we will overcome_.

 

Morgan allows himself to be distracted by the strange peace around him, trailing his fingers down painted wood and over spellbound stone. It’s a welcoming and an uneasy tranquil all at once. He wonders what will become of him, here. Surely, if he were to search for his friends, this soft, sunlit halcyon would become naught but a memory. He doesn’t like forgetting about things.

 

“You seem to have lost your way,” a smiling woman says to Morgan once he’s rounded the entirety of the quiet, empty shrine. She’s dressed in white, her long black hair like a thick, rich brushstroke of ink upon canvas.

 

“You knew I’d be here,” he says carefully, watching how she handles herself with an ethereal sort of grace. It seems a bit too good to be true, considering his first experience with traversing time and reality.

 

“The spirits know many things,” she says. Her smile is genuine, lacking in any sort of malicious intent. “And I find it difficult to overlook the presence of divine blood. Would you come with me?”

 

His sisters have always told him that he’s too trusting, too willing to believe in the good of humanity, and Morgan continues to wonder about himself as he follows the woman through up stone steps and through tall gates. Something about her reminds him of the stories he’s heard of Exalt Emmeryn, a kindred spirit even to her last breath.

 

It’s easy to piece a conclusion together once the woman guides him to a city of magnificent scarlet architecture, past the common streets filled with fawning people and through gates painted brighter than gold. The years have made it easier for him to think before he speaks, keeping his assessments to himself rather than blurting them aloud—to be more like his father, more like a true tactician—but it’s still difficult to keep his expression schooled into something other than undignified gawking. Ylisse had been grandiose, but the palace here is radiant and colorful in a manner he can’t help but stare at everything.

 

“You’re the ruler of this kingdom,” he says quite bluntly, once they’ve reached a place with less eyes and ears, a quieter room. “The people seem to love you very dearly.” He has seen two kinds of rulers—one as cherished as she, another a god of fire and nightmares; still dearly worshipped, but less loved.

 

“I cannot be everything they wish me to be,” is the humble reply, but the woman is pleased. _Mikoto_ had been what she’d introduced herself as, a name strange yet familiar on his tongue.

 

“Queen Mikoto,” Morgan says, blinking curiously when someone enters the room, bowing respectfully to the queen. The way he carries himself reminds him of how his other father’s warden would act, insightful, but without the moments of overprotectiveness. Morgan thinks he rather likes the knowledgeable look in the man’s eyes, sharp and shrewd. Calculating. He has seen eyes like those before, in two separate timelines.

 

“This is Yukimura,” says Queen Mikoto, “my personal tactician.”

 

“He doesn’t trust me,” Morgan says, because it’s true, and also because he has still not quite mastered having a personal filter. His sheepish expression must be obvious, since the Queen gives him another friendly nod.

 

Mikoto’s laugh is both gentle and apologetic. “He means no offense, but I found it proper to inform him of your arrival. He will have your quarters arranged, and at a later time, someone will give a tour of the palace if you’d like.”

 

“I’d love a tour,” Morgan says brightly. “What I’ve seen so far is very beautiful, for lack of a better word. In ways that my homeland could not quite compare. I’m grateful for your hospitality.”

 

“In the meantime,” Mikoto motions towards Yukimura, who steps forward with a bundle of bright clothes. “We do have clothes you can change into comfortably. I will have someone launder your clothes if you wouldn’t mind.”

 

Morgan stiffens upon seeing the clothes. They’re quite bright, not lacking in floral designs and pastel hues. He remembers seeing most of these colors and patterns on women’s garb, and—well. It’s difficult to come up with a delicate way of turning down the generous offer, but he’d also like a fresh change of clothes.

 

The queen seems to consider his discomfort, tilting her head at how he eyes the simpler blue robes that Yukimura wears. She has a keen eye for dilemma, which is simultaneously worrying and relieving.

 

“Would you prefer darker robes, dear?” she asks kindly.

 

He laughs nervously, looking off to a corner. Counting the spaces of white on the wooden doors helps to calm himself somewhat. “I-if you wouldn’t mind. I apologize; darker colors are just what I’m used to wearing.”

 

The queen assures him that it’s not an issue at all, and he’s very relieved that she seems to _understand_ , in some way or another. As he’s guided to a room to change, he fumbles with the robe he’s given, stubbornly refusing the help offered to handle the patterned belt. Morgan makes sure to layer the robe as he’d seen the others wear it, and it takes him a few tries to make a satisfactory knot, but he’s quite proud at how a few glances at others’ clothing had been enough. He’s not quite sure he’ll be able to get used to the sandals, though, clunky and loud beneath his clumsy feet.

 

Yukimura later sends an apology his way, stating that he is too occupied with official affairs to personally give a tour of the palace. Instead, a man in in deep red robes comes to greet him, tan from hours spent in the sun, long hair tied into a thick ponytail.

 

“You must be Morgan,” he says politely, but Morgan can easily hear the edge of command and power in his voice. He sounds and looks like a leader, trained from a young age into diplomacy and the arts of combat. Morgan knows this because his father is the same, though probably better with a sword than he could ever be at diplomacy.

 

“I am,” Morgan says, “It’s nice to meet you.”

 

The man nods, stern yet genial. “I’m Ryouma, the eldest son of the royal family here. Queen Mikoto has told us of your arrival.”

 

“You and Queen Mikoto are very generous for taking me in, Prince Ryouma,” he replies as they begin to walk. The hallways are long, echoing with their mismatched footsteps. Ryouma’s steps are not heavy, but light as if he is prepared for flight. Morgan finds it is hard to keep his eyes from straying to the broad set of Ryouma’s shoulders, the sharp set of jaw. He imagines that the sword at Ryouma’s side has led the way to many victories. “I seem to have made somewhat of an odd impression upon the people here.”

 

“It isn’t every day we openly accept someone from outside into our kingdom,” Ryouma says. “We aren’t at war, but our people have suffered much from those who wish for one. If anyone behaves untoward, please, let us know.”

 

Morgan is reminded at once of Plegia, and Ryouma seems to take his brief silence as shock.

 

“My apologies. I’m sure this is not what anyone would like to hear during a tour.” He turns to gesture to the arch of a gate, and Morgan wonders, idly, how heavy the burden of this prince is.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The one Thoron tome Morgan had brought with him is a comforting weight in his hands. He doesn’t want to practice with it too much, since it’ll wear out quickly, and also since he hasn’t found an appropriate location to sling lightning without setting everything on fire.

 

Queen Mikoto, as perceptive as she is, seems to have already sent word to a fellow mage to help him with some studies on Hoshidan magic. He’s browsing through scrolls in the library, unable to understand much of the script in certain sections; interestingly enough, some scrolls offer text similar to what he has seen in Chon’sin, a stylistic calligraphy that flows easily with ink, graceful in ways that his handwriting is not. Unfortunately, he’d neglected on studying Chon’sin scripts, instead opting for more books on strategy and wartime preparations. He still has yet to best his father in one of their regular games, but he has gotten close!

 

Orochi is a playful instructor, often nudging punishment spells his way when he doesn’t quite follow her directions correctly. He falls on his rear on more than one occasion in an attempt to avoid stepping on or being hit by a rat spirit, though they are thankfully weak enough that they don’t do him any actual harm.

 

“Doesn’t seem to be coming to you easily, hm?” Orochi grins when he bats tiredly at the ghostly monkey that soon dissipates into the air. “You’re an onmyouji, right? Or, well, something similar? I’m not sure what you would call spiritual practitioners where you come from.”

 

Morgan sits up wearily, the wooden spelltags clattering in his lap. They’ve been spending the better part of the day trying to get him to master simple summoning magic, but it seems to be beyond him. The drain of mana from his body is certainly similar and what he’s used to, but how it channels to and from his body feels entirely foreign. His best attempt remains a small rat that had faded quickly when his own excitement proved to be a distraction.

 

“It’s not the same,” Morgan grumbles, wiping at his forehead. He feels rather disappointed with himself, incompetent. He’d become so used to how spells flowed easily from his hands, the glow of tome script and symbols like a small storm surrounding him, but there is none of that familiarity with Hoshidan onmyoudo. “It’s just—I’m used to how mana builds up inside of me, and there’s that sudden release, y’know?”

 

“Our spells do not work in the same way,” Orochi says patiently. “There is no rise or fall; think of it as a constant stream of water, unwavering and unchanging. The mana does not _leave_ your body, but continues in an endless cycle between mind and spirit, between you and your summon. If we break that connection, then the spirit we are manipulating disappears as well.”

 

After a few more unsuccessful attempts, Orochi asks him to demonstrate with his tome, summoning an ox spirit as a target.

 

He breathes in deeply as lightning flares around him, a golden halo that he welcomes eagerly. The taste of ozone and storm is sharp and bitter on his tongue, but it’s all _exhilarating_ as he banishes the spell from his body and towards the lumbering ox. The spirit fizzles out quickly, and Morgan’s triumphant grin grows bigger when he sees Orochi’s perturbed expression. Clearly she had been expecting to be able to maintain her summon through the spell.

 

“You are not without talent in magic,” she assures him later, when she drops off the blank scrolls, ink and brushes that he’d requested. “But perhaps you have grown used to the destructive nature of your spells. We will continue lessons later, dear.”

 

He stays up the entire night writing out the scripts from Excalibur and Valflame, satisfied with how he still seems to remember all of it despite not using them as frequently. He’s never actually made his own tome before, but Robin had taught him how, often encouraging the unhealthy habit of staying up late to finish things. It makes Morgan feel wistful in a way; it’s nostalgic, almost, but he is glad that he can connect with his father in this way, even though they are worlds apart.

 

When the sun rises, and the morning greets him with golden rays and a rosy sky, he lets bits of flame dance across his fingertips, bright enough that he is almost blinded to tears.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“You seem to enjoy visiting the shrines,” Ryouma tells him on a quiet morning, kneeling beside him to offer prayer and incense to the dragon of dawn. “I’m glad they offer you a place for peace of mind.”

 

“I’m not quite one for prayers,” Morgan admits. “And I’m not one for admiring deities, I suppose, despite all that’s happened.”

 

Prince Ryouma gives him a curious look at that, and Morgan regrets his slip of tongue. “It’s complicated.”

 

“I see,” the prince says, and sits in meditative silence as Morgan ponders the planes of existence and parallels between worlds. He oft visits the shrines since they offer a quite solace and a sort of delicate aura that reminds him of Mila’s Tree, calming and awestriking all at once.

 

He’s read a bit more on Hoshidan lore, and how these two kingdoms are juxtapositions both in land and worship. Morgan isn’t quite so confident that he could entirely hate the people of Nohr, though—his friends are there, after all, and he himself is a mixture of both divinity and terror. He’s lucky enough that he doesn’t suffer from the same nightmares his father so often does. He likes to think he’s able to be accepting of most things simply because he understands, one way or another, the sufferings of both sides.

 

It’s almost a given that Queen Mikoto is more than aware of his interesting lineage, but he is not sure about her children. They welcome him, for the most part, and he’s had interesting conversations with them regarding combat styles. For the most part, however, the only one who truly seems to welcome him is the eldest.

 

Morgan doesn’t know the specifics, but there are some underlying scars in the royal family, and he feels that digging around for more information would both be an insult and unacceptably inconsiderate of all the hospitality that he’s been shown.

 

“What about you, Prince Ryouma?” he asks when the incense has burned down halfway. The forest around them is silent, as if holding its breath to listen to the prince’s words. “You are the one I seem to run into the most when I am here.”

 

“The late king used to pray at shrines regularly,” Ryouma finally says after a tense moment.

 

“Oh,” Morgan says. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

 

“It’s alright, Morgan,” Ryouma smiles as if they are discussing strategies and tactics as usual, rather than unfortunate family history. “You meant no ill will, and I have long since come to terms with his hastened passing.” After a moment more, he lets out a long sigh. “He would take me to this shrine in particular whenever he could; early in the mornings, and at the time my siblings were too young to accompany us. I merely hope they do not resent me, for having so many memories of our father while they have none.”

 

“I can understand somewhat,” Morgan replies carefully. “Your siblings, to some extent. I have little recollection of my childhood, and past in general. My father is the only one I really remember, and even then, what I remember of him may be simple delusions at best. I hope, in turn, that you do not feel falsely guilty. There are some fates we simply cannot control.”

 

 _Some_ , he reminds himself. Perhaps this isn’t true, though; he himself is a byproduct of a fate forced into submission by desperate, desperate human hands. Perhaps all fates can be changed as easily as gods are born and destroyed.

 

“My condolences,” Ryouma says, then chuckles softly. He stands, offering a hand to Morgan in a motion of easy camaraderie. “It seems we have more in common than I expected. It is a welcome development.”

 

Morgan grins, relieved that the tension has melted away into something friendlier. “I do believe we have a match of shogi to catch up on. Usual place?”

 

“Of course,” the prince agrees. “Saizou is of the opinion that our little excursions outside are rather insufferable, so this time, perhaps I will have Kagerou prepare us some tea as well. I do enjoy teasing him.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Prince Ryouma is always busy during the day, and Morgan would feel both guilty and impolite asking the crown prince of Hoshido for sparring practice when there are more important things to be doing, so he eventually finds himself under Reina’s tutelage. She is certainly an interesting character, but Morgan isn’t quite so put off by it as many of the other soldiers are.

 

Marc, his twin sister, is rather similar to a fault, enjoying victory a bit too much and bit too morbidly for the defeated party’s comfort. He knows this from personal experience, much to his chagrin.

 

He isn’t as skilled with the blade as his sisters are; mind, he'd never concerned himself swordfighting lessons too much since he knew he would end up being knocked onto his rear, and had turned his attention more towards tomes. Morgan likes to think he’ll grow into his father’s robes one day, both figuratively and literally, and magic is the one way he can truly grow towards his goal.

 

Reina isn’t particularly interested in magic, although she does give Morgan’s tome an inquisitive glance.

 

“Your form is rather abysmal, dear,” she tuts, raising the tip of his sword and pushing his shoulders into a more suitable position. “Do you not practice very often?”

 

“No,” he says, doing his best not to groan when she raises his sword tip again. His arms shake from holding the practice weapon up for so long. “I figured it’d be rude to ask Prince Ryouma to teach me, since I’m aware I’m far from perfect.”

 

“Relax,” Reina says sharply, bringing down her practice naginata onto his shoulders. The dull pain makes him wince, and he realizes just how out of shape he’s become from neglecting proper practices. Well, Lucina has always been the best with the sword, anyways. He winces when Reina taps his trembling arms again.

 

“I imagine the soldiers are too frightened to disobey your orders during training,” he jests, earning a wicked smile and another tap in response. “You’re a rather charming instructor, to be honest. You remind me of my twin sister.”

 

“If you have breath for conversation, then this is obviously too easy for you,” Reina says in a singsong voice, stepping back. “One hundred swings, soldier. I’ll be counting.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Morgan quickly grows accustomed to the warm mornings in Hoshido, the serenity of the kingdom’s surrounding nature, and the quaint life of the countryside. He is himself rather drawn to the smaller villages around the border, where daylight blends into a darker dusk, and the grounds are more brittle, less fertile. The villagers still manage, having so much experience with crops and the weather here as is, and Morgan is fascinated by the rituals that are so different from what he has seen, and yet so similar to the core.

 

On one of his walks, he stumbles upon a glowing patch of stone, markedly different from its surroundings by how it shimmers like a pile of precious jewels. He does not realize what it actually is until he gives it a curious prod, feeling the rush of potential and magic beneath his fingers.

 

 _This is a dragon vein_ , he thinks, recalling the contents of the many scrolls he’s pored through during his free time. The majority of them in Hoshido seem to be those of a benevolent nature, shrugging away decay and darkness to give way to richer lands and soil. He has only seen one activated while on an excursion near the palace, where Queen Mikoto had been replenishing the wards around the palace.

 

The light reminds him of Excalibur’s emerald gales, but much grander in terms of sheer power.

 

He lays his palm flat atop the dragon vein, willing it to obey. For a brief moment there is a flicker of acknowledgement, where he feels the earth tremble under his touch, but it shudders to a still soon afterwards. Morgan is disappointed, but he hadn’t been expecting to be able to activate one, in any case. He does have the blood of a divine dragon, but perhaps Naga’s magic is too different from that of the dawn dragon.

 

Morgan records his findings once he returns to the palace. It is long past dark and the moon is high in the sky when he sneaks back to his quarters. Yukimura had set a curfew for the first few weeks of his stay in Hoshido, but doesn’t seem to mind him breaking the rules after months of being here.

 

It doesn’t look like the princesses and princes follows those rules either—judging by how often he has seen the second prince sneaking out to the archery grounds, and how the whickers of pegasi during the night aren’t as quiet as the oldest princess seems to think they are.

 

In the corner by his futon lie incomplete copies of Thoron. He has managed to piece together crude copies of magic tomes from his terrible scrawl and with the help of the bookkeeper; it is a way to both ensure that he doesn’t run out of tomes, and also to keep the spells fresh in his mind. He feels as though forgetting the spells would lead him into forgetting more things, and—he doesn’t want to forget, even if he’s no longer in the same world as his family.

 

He wonders how his fathers are doing, how his sisters fare. Morgan has found that the best way to stave of homesickness is to bury himself in reciting tomes, particularly Thoron, over and over.

 

Morgan falls asleep a while before dawn, cheek stained and smudging the ink over the scroll into a blurry mess.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Your swordplay is very familiar,” Morgan says one day, idling to the side as he watches Ryouma practice swings. “Well, similar, at least, to that of the myrmidons from my home.”

 

Ryouma lowers his sword. The sunlight filtering through the slats of the open shoji give him a golden outline, and Morgan just stares for a moment, transfixed. He’s been doing that a lot recently—staring when he probably shouldn’t be, and looking away whenever it seems that Ryouma will catch him in the act. He doesn’t remember how long ago this had first started, but he’s read through enough books outside of strategy to know there’s _some_ thing going on in his head.

 

“From your home,” Ryouma says carefully, tilting his head. He sets the practice sword to the side, wiping at his brow while musing aloud. “There do seem to be parallels to both our worlds, seeing as you were able to come here in pursuit of your friends.”

 

“I envy your swordsmanship,” he says, shaking his head when Ryouma gives him a stern look. “Don’t misunderstand. I’m quite happy with where I am, but I prefer magic, y’know? It’s just—here, it’s not what I’m accustomed to, I suppose.”

 

“You speak of the differences with Hoshidan magic and your spells with tomes,” Ryouma says. “Yukimura has told me you’ve taken to sparring lessons with Reina. I’m impressed; she is not what one would call a lenient master.”

 

“I have nightmares of her drill routines,” Morgan shudders, and Ryouma laughs gently, sympathetic.

 

“She once tried to teach me how to wield a naginata,” Ryouma sighs, “When I was younger. I never took to it as well as Hinoka has, however. I understand how frightening her disappointment can be, but she means well.”

 

Morgan keeps his eyes trained on the opposite corner, just so he doesn’t stare while Ryouma unties and reties his hair in the light of sunset. He often thinks of Ryouma as some sort of lion, what with his untamable hair, but there is definitely something like a dragon in how his eyes glow during practices, and how his sword of lightning crackles with unrivaled energy. “I understand. I’m alright with magic, but, well, my siblings were always better with handling the physical weaponry. My father would often joke that I was born with two left feet, since I’m _awful_ with footwork. Dancing, too.”

 

He trails off, suddenly overcome with a rush of homesickness. Prince Ryouma makes a concerned noise, reaching out for him.

 

“Morgan? You look quite pale.”

 

“Sorry,” Morgan says, sniffling, voice thick as he covers his eyes with a sleeve. He doesn’t like crying, much less in front of someone he _likes_ and—he’s equally embarrassed and horrified at himself. “Sorry, I just—I miss them a lot. My parents. My sisters.”

 

Ryouma’s hand is rough and warm on his head, fingers through his hair more soothing than Morgan would ever like to admit aloud. “I could only imagine how difficult it must be, living in a strange world with nothing but the memories of your loved ones.”

 

“I mean,” Morgan mumbles into his sleeve, chancing a peek. “It was my choice to follow my friends. I was ill-prepared; didn’t even have a follow-through plan.”

 

“I do not think any less of you for that,” Ryouma says. His eyes are so god damn beautiful and _kind_ and Morgan kind of wants to cry even harder, but instead he scrubs at his face and does his best to bite back his tears. “Traveling to another world is not an opportunity one has on any regular day. I, myself, would like to travel worlds, if only to see the places and people you have spoken so avidly about.”

 

 _Don’t just say things like that_ , Morgan thinks miserably, but laughs it off. “Maybe a Prince Ryouma from another universe has already visited my world. Hopefully he isn’t lost in some town running errands for a helpless old lady.”

 

“I’m sure you would take care of me,” Ryouma says firmly. Morgan’s cheeks burn all the way back to the palace, and when he at last falls asleep, it is to imagining the steadiness of Ryouma’s hands as he writes poetry.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Over time, Morgan improves in regulating his mana cycle, able to manipulate it into a more constant stream of concentration rather than the bursts he had been trained into before. Summoning spirits is still quite difficult for him, but at the very least he is able to achieve simple tasks with them. Orochi describes the relationship between the onmyouji and the summon as a simpler extension of the self. Morgan doesn’t quite understand how it all works, but is pleased with the progress he has made.

 

He knows, though, that mastering Hoshidan magic is likely not possible for him. It is simply too different, and he has a feeling that his fell blood might be interfering with the divine magic.

 

In turn, he attempts to teach Orochi tome magic, and they both laugh when they each respectively fail their practice spells. It’s nice—having this sort of friendship, but also bittersweet. Luckily Queen Mikoto doesn’t press for answers regarding his lineage, which he will forever be grateful for. He had never thought that he would have personal issues with it, since they hadn’t been so terrible in the past, but Morgan gets nightmares frequently, now. Dreams of a cruel, ruthless, six-eyed beast he calls _father_.

 

Ryouma catches him practicing over the southern bridge, quietly spectating until Morgan finally sets down the stack of wooden spells with a defeated sigh. It’s strange; magic had always come to him so _easily_ in his world, but here, the flitting colors of animal spirits continue to elude him, even with his improvements. He’s read through what he could of basic onmyoudo scrolls, followed as much of Orochi’s teaching as he could, stayed up until the moon faded into warmer skies, and _yet—_

 

“You’re being too hard on yourself, Morgan,” Ryouma says. “Work in moderation, hm? I understand you’ve been assisting Yukimura in some official documentations. He has praised you once or twice, discreetly. Queen Mikoto is worried you may be overworking yourself.”

 

“Ah,” Morgan says. “I did not realize you’d been watching me.”

 

“It’s unfortunate we are unable to spend more time together,” the prince says. “Outside of our regular shogi sessions, at the very least. I am quite keen on regaining the upper hand this time. You are a fast learner.”

 

“It isn’t so different from chess,” Morgan replies idly, shuffling the spelltags together clumsily. They clatter noisily in his hands, but he is grateful for the noise. “Maybe I can show you how to play sometime, though I’m not sure where we would find a chessboard and pieces here.”

 

“I could commission an artisan to work based off of your descriptions,” Ryouma says, then frowns. “Morgan.”

 

“Yes, Prince Ryouma.”

 

“You have been avoiding me.”

 

“You are simply a busy man,” Morgan says. “You are the crown prince, after all. It would be inappropriate if a stranger to these lands were to take time away from your responsibilities.” He lowers his eyes, knowing that Ryouma is likely frowning at him very severely. Crown Prince Ryouma is so very kind, just like his mother, and perceptive to the point Morgan feels as though his every thought might as well be tattooed onto his skin. “I apologize for being distant, but I do have my reasons.”

 

Ryouma sighs. “I understand. At least send me descriptions of this chessboard and its respective pieces? I will have the set prepared for the next time we meet for shogi, or chess.”

 

Morgan can’t refuse him, could never truly deny him anything he asked for. He watches Ryouma walk back along the path to the palace, curses to himself, then goes to meditate at a nearby shrine. Incense makes his nose itch, but it helps him clear his thoughts. He can only hope that it’ll knock the daydreams out of him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The next time they meet for shogi, the weather has turned cold enough that Ryouma’s retainers insist that they have their match indoors. Some of the smaller ponds have frozen over, speckled with bits of snowfall. The white scenery reminds Morgan of Ferox and her tall, mighty fortress. Even in the summers, Feroxi lands wouldn’t be entirely green, still covered here and there with remnants of winter. His father, the one lacking in diplomacy, would go there often to spar with the khans.

 

The chessboard that Prince Ryouma presents to him is—magnificent, to say the least. The details on the pieces are unique in a Hoshidan way while still remaining true to their origins, and he wonders how so many intricate lines could be carved into black and white jade without breaking it.

 

“This is beautiful,” he says, simply since he cannot think of another word to describe the set. He trails his fingers over the pieces individually, marveling at the craftsmanship. It is difficult to remember the set that he had used with his fathers, but this seems far closer to his heart. Homelier. “It must have been quite expensive, though.”

 

“Prices do not concern me when they are gifts for you,” Ryouma says, sitting opposite of Morgan. “Unfortunately, I do not have any prior knowledge on the positioning or strategies revolving around these pieces; I’m afraid you’ll have to teach me.”

 

“The objective isn’t quite so different from shogi,” Morgan snickers, watching Ryouma clumsily push the pieces into what he believes is the correct order. It is quite obvious that the princes has spent some time poring over the diagrams Morgan had drawn for the artisan, and it’s almost touching, to know Ryouma is so eager to learn about something dear to him. “Let’s start with an introduction of each piece, shall we?”

 

They spend hours going over the basics of chess, exchanging wits and laughter as Ryouma slowly masters the idea behind the board game. He’s a natural-born leader, well-versed in strategy, and picks up on tactics as quickly as Morgan had taken to shogi. It’s nice, this little give and take. It’s part of Ryouma’s charm, too, and Morgan tries his best not to concentrate too much on that. Rather, he spends a lot of time staring at the pieces, as if completely taken by their design instead.

 

Morgan only realizes how late it has become when the shadows seem to waver, materializing into a human shape. He should be used to it by now, but Kagerou and Saizou’s quiet entrances are still unnerving and never fail to catch him off guard.

 

“Milord,” Saizou says, pointedly ignoring Morgan. “The hour grows late. Surely it would be best to resume this at a later time.”

 

“Saizou,” Ryouma smiles. “Come, sit. Kagerou brought us some tea earlier. Here, let me pour you some.”

 

“ _Milord_ ,” the retainer repeats, but Ryouma is already pouring another cup of tea.

 

Morgan does not argue this. In this, at least, he can be selfish.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Whether it be good fortune or simply his bad luck, Morgan is invited to an excursion to the Hoshidan borderlands, where the lands are rife with unused dragon veins and uncultivated lands. Ryouma explains that they have long since been considering expanding, since their people are many, but have never quite taken the initiative due to prolonged tensions with Nohr.

 

It seems that some of the others are also venturing to different parts of the borderlands. Princess Hinoka to the north, Prince Takumi to the south, leaving Prince Ryouma and his small group to head west, towards the steep crags separating the lands of two dragons.

 

Morgan cannot quell his excitement as well as he would like to. Traveling is probably one of the few things that he could never decline, simply since he enjoys moving around and tasting the air of different lands and culture so much. Although he’s provided a handsome horse, he is dismounted whenever possibly, usually the quickest of their group whenever they pause for a short break.

 

Ryouma activates the dragon veins they discover along the way, breathing life into young forests and through the trickling streams that soon burst into strong currents. Morgan is cautiously poking at one he has found buried within riversand when Ryouma approaches him without the company of others.

 

“You wish to activate the vein?” he asks. “I was under the impression that you have the blood of a dragon within you.”

 

“Different from the Dawn Dragon,” Morgan shakes his head, palm still pressed to the entrancing light. “It’s complicated.”

 

“Then I’ll help you,” Ryouma says simply, and presses his hand over Morgan’s to amplify the effect of the dragon vein. The glow intensifies, and between staring at the rush of magic filtering through their intertwined fingers and staring at Ryouma’s face, Morgan is blushing harder than he ever has in his entire life.

 

He hasn’t given marriage much thought before, since Lucina is the eldest and he still hasn’t met anyone he thought of in that way—but. With Ryouma, maybe…

 

“Will you marry me?” he says suddenly and quickly, instantly regretting his outburst as his face grows warmer under Ryouma’s surprised gaze. “I mean—this is, uh—”

 

Ryouma smiles as the dragon vein fully activates, and his joyous, relieved voice is still so clear over the sound of running water, his hand so warm even in the new river that flows over their laced fingers.  Warmer than the sunlight on Morgan’s face is the burn of Ryouma’s lips, whispering prayers, swearing promises and an oath into his mouth.

 

 

* * *

 


End file.
